


Guess You're the Judge

by plastics



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Anal Sex, Blackmail, Forced Orgasm, Hockey Injuries, M/M, Medical Kink, Sexual Coercion, Sports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-23 18:48:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19707307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plastics/pseuds/plastics
Summary: "There are a couple days off before they play next. A home game. Win or die. Peter feels distinctly doesn’t-matter-at-all-how-he-feels. Which is why it is completely beyond fucking comprehension when, mere hours before warmups, Dennis is refusing to clear him."Or; playoffs means sacrificing the body.





	Guess You're the Judge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LSeale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LSeale/gifts).



> Title from "On Guard" by Le Tigre. Hope you enjoy, LSeale!

The kid gets them into Game 7, but it’s a narrow thing. The team had already built up a lead by the time Peter got rushed by that fucker Beaumont and got his leg caught around the goalpost. The entire left side of his body lit up with the sort of pain that bordered on numbing, except for, you know,  _ really fucking not. _

Self-loathing boiled in Peter’s throat as he let himself get towed off the ice by Brenner and Tommy past the frantically stretching rookie.

“Lowe,” Peter snapped. The kid looked up, eyes wide behind the cage of his mask, and Peter was reminded that the whole supportive words gig isn’t really his thing. Now he has to say something, though, so Peter grits out, “You got this, alright? No choice.”

He nods, jerky from the neck down, and Peter is forced back into the locker room before he change his mind and reclaim his spot, fuck his leg.

They get Peter out of his gear, poke, stretch, and prod him until Peter hates his medical team more than he hates Beaumont. Dennis laughs when Peter tells him this; Dennis currently has fingers massaged deeper into Peter’s thigh than any man has the right to, but if someone must, Peter supposes it should be Dennis. He’s been the team doctor since before even Peter had joined the team and is maybe the most stable out of them all.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dennis says. “Stop holding your breath.”

Peter does in one long exhale, and by the time Dennis is done, Peter feels—Peter knows something is wrong, his hips haven’t been right since the first series, a sore grind that’ll need fixing but not yet. He can still play. He  _ needs  _ to keep playing.

In the time that all took, Lowe allowed two goals. He plays on an edge Peter wouldn’t allow himself on his worst night; it works for him, most of the time, but not tonight, not here. Not that the D is helping him much. Tommy’s killer instincts have definitely tipped one direction, which was likely what Beaumont wanted even more than getting Peter out of the way.

His teammates, Peter decides, are all terrible. Despite this, Lowe manages rebounds well enough to twist the momentum back their way, and then Pete picks up a garbage goal that seals the game. 

It’s a dirty enough win that there’s not much celebration in the locker room, even though it’s a win that kept them alive. Tommy finds him immediately after, still dripping sweat, eyes wide and dark. “You good, big guy?”

“You’re a fucking idiot, Tomlinson,” Peter responds with as much sincerity as he can.

Tommy snorts and says, “Yeah, you’re fine. Saint Pete, where would be without you.”

He puts a big, nasty arm over Peter’s shoulders and shakes him, and Peter swallows most of a hiss at being jolted. Unfortunately, Tommy is only mostly an idiot, because those eyes turn right back to assessing in a second, lingering on the awkward angle he has his leg stuck out at on the exam table.

“Don’t forget it,” Peter says, shrugging off the arm and swinging his leg, carefully, around to stand up. The trainers hadn’t, perhaps, strictly, given him permission to wander off yet, but he feels—

He walks out into the locker room and takes his spot in the corner. Lowe is only half stripped, with Coach Cole standing over him, talking softly through how he felt, breathing, all that shit. Peter interrupts to say, “He needs to keep his right shoulder up. You’re too big to be acting like a fucking mouse in the net.”

Lowe gnaws hard on the corner of his bottom lip, but it’s good progress that he says, “I feel like that pulls my blocker out of position?”

“Yeah, well, they’re not scoring on your blocker. Your reflexes are good. Your positioning is shit.”

And Cole shoots Peter a look, but Lowe just nods once. 

* * *

There are a couple days off before they play next. A home game. Win or die. Peter feels distinctly doesn’t-matter-at-all-how-he-feels.

Which is why it is completely beyond fucking comprehension when, mere hours before warmups, Dennis is refusing to clear him.

“Is this a fucking joke?” Peter demands. He’d gotten through  _ several  _ practices and rounds of physio and it’d all been  _ fine—  _ far better than the kid, at least, who may be good, some far day in the future, but right now still looks every bit of the third string call-up that he is.

“Petey, we’re talking about long-term injury prevention here. I cannot in good consciousness as a doctor allow you to play tonight,” Dennis says, even as anything, which is great and all when he’s talking Tommy down from bloodying the entire arena but fully not something Peter is interested in hearing directed towards himself, in this instant.

He snaps, “Don’t fucking ‘Petey’ me, you asshole, this isn’t the time to be all santimonious about your oath like your job is anything  _ but  _ letting me play—”

“You don’t know shit about my job,” Dennis replies, and his voice has taken a cold, sharp edge that snaps Peter’s jaw closed. “It’s my  _ job  _ to ensure everyone on the ice is in the best shape they can be, and that no one is going to let their team down by taking the job from someone’s better prepared for game situations.”

“Dennis, come on,” Peter says, and he isn’t begging, but he is—he’s desperate. This is as close as the team’s been his entire career. There have been mountains of disappointment through those years, and it never got any easier, and he can’t—  _ Lowe  _ can’t. It can’t come down to the kid. Dennis knows this, was there for it all, so Peter says that, “You  _ know  _ I have to. And I can. I’ve been here all day proving that to you.”

And Peter has; the rest of the team and most of the staff have all already gone home for a few hours to unwind, nap, eat. He’d barely seen most of them. The medical team ran tests all day. None of them committed to an answer, but Peter was so sure that Dennis would come down on the right side of things.

Now, the man standing in front of him is—not quite a stranger, but not the man he’s relied on for years, either, who nursed him through the lowest points in his career. Not the friend. Even before that hand lands so softly at the hem of his mesh shorts, dread begins to build in Peter’s throat.

“I know how important this is to you. How about this,” Dennis is saying, in the same voice he used right before talking Peter into his first hip operation and promising he’d be back by the start of next season, “I do one more examination, and if you get past that, you can play, alright?”

“Alright,” Peter echoes. There’s no choice in it. He would do anything for his team. He’d sit, if he actually thought it was the right move—if it was anything less than a death sentence. 

Dennis withdraws his hand from Peter’s shorts. When he speaks, it’s far too much like the same easy, professional voice he’s used his entire career. “Good, Peter. Why don’t you lie down on the table for me? Face-down, please.”

Peter moves stiffy into position. One he’d been in countless times before. He hears Dennis moving away, a door closing—no lock clicking. When Dennis touches him again, it’s with two hands on his lower back, beneath his sweatshirt. He chides, “You’re always so tense, Peter.”

Dennis’ hands are good, and they know Peter. The contrast makes Peter want to curl in even harder, but he doesn’t know what Dennis will use an excuse, so he forces his muscles to relax. Deep breaths, redirection, distraction. His breathing. It catches every time Dennis’ hands drift lower, until it doesn’t.

“How does that feel?” Dennis asks eventually, thumbs pressing at the very edge of his shorts.

_ “Great, _ doc,” Peter grits out.

“I’m glad,” Dennis responds, sounding just as sincere. “Lift your hips for me?”

Peter does, carefully. If he’s favoring his right side, Dennis doesn’t comment as he strips Peter’s shorts and briefs in one go. He guides Peter back down, then moves his hands to cup Peter’s ass in his hands. And it’s not—it’s not like Peter’s shy, or gone his whole career being precious about the muscles in his body that need to be taken care of. His whole body has been under Dennis’ care and touch for years.

But it’s different now, feeling those strong fingers digging into the meat of his ass, holding him open. Peter can feel eyes on him, examining, hungry. One hand lets up, and Peter isn’t surprised when he feels a finger pet over and around his hole firmy, but it still makes him jolt hard. Dennis’ free hand pulls him back just as fast.

“Some tenderness in that area, then?” Dennis asks, and Peter almost laughs, disbelieving. If this is going to happen, fine, but the act—

“Feels about normal, doc,” Peter responds. His voice already sounds wrecked.

“Peter,” Dennis says, scolding. “This isn’t going to work if you’re not honest with me.”

Peter crosses his arms beneath him, buries his head in them, denying the fire on his face as he says, “I  _ am  _ being honest.”

Dennis sighs, disappointed, like he has the right. “If that’s how you’re going to be, I’m going to have to do a more thorough examination. Get on your knees.”

He walks away again, and Peter can hear the opening of drawers, the stretching snap of gloves. No way he can move. No way he can. How is this even  _ happening? _

When Dennis returns, he makes another disapproving noise. “Peter. If you can’t even do this much, how am I supposed to honestly believe you’re prepared for a full game?”

Drawing his legs up beneath him feels like an out-of-body experience. That’s not so unfamiliar, Peter supposes. Your body must do what your mind cannot. He focuses on what he can. The cling of his sweatshirt on his shoulders. The interlocking of his fingers, nails too short to dig in.

Dennis corrects his posture—arch his back, ass up—before moving back behind him. Plastic massages cool slick against his hole, as patient has he’d been all day. It makes it easier to relax, which makes the shame come all that much faster when Dennis slides a finger into him without an ounce of resistance. He twists it around, in and out, slowly, getting him wet. Doesn’t hurt when Dennis fits in the second finger, either.

“How does that feel?” Dennis asks, like he’s asking about the level on some e-stip pads.

“Fine,” Peter grits out. Dennis hums, twists his fingers again, and— _ fuck. _ Okay. Fuck.

It’s not pleasure, Peter doesn’t want it to be pleasure, but it’s  _ deep, _ intimate, and Dennis knows what he’s doing. Peter can feel his body tensing, wanting to move away, surely, but Dennis lies an ungloved hand on his back, a silent order even as he seems to be working really, really hard to make Peter squirm. 

“Still fine?” Dennis asks. 

“Uh huh,” Peter replies, and he hates how breathless he sounds—and he is, it feels like his entire torso is being constricted, but not like that.

“You don’t sound fine,” Bennis says, and Peter wants to scream, how is he supposed to  _ sound  _ fine? It’s just the practice arena but there are still people around. It’s unimaginable what would happen if any of them walked in. If any other doctor would sign off on Peter playing. Dennis continues without waiting for a response. “It’s alright, Peter, I think I know what the problem is.”

The hand drops from Peter’s back to his front, down, until it wraps around his cock. He’s not hard, but he’s not  _ soft  _ anymore, either. It’s so hard not to curl in on himself, hide every vulnerable piece of him, nevermind his bum leg and crooked hips.

“You’re alright, I’ll fix you right up,” Dennis says, and it’s not, it shouldn’t be, comforting. Just familiar, somehow, through all this. “Just a little congested. We’ll get you cleared up, realigned, and you’ll be good for tonight, okay?”

“Okay,” Peter says, then grits his teeth through the long pull on his cock. Dennis is coordinated, and each tug and curl of his fingers feel like they’re coaxing something out of him. It shouldn’t be working. Peter feels like his mind is freezing up even as his body starts to tense from more than anxiety. The hand on his cock is bare, so Dennis notices the moment when Peter’s cock starts to leak. Even as Peter draws in a sharp breath, it hardly seems to surprise Dennis. Instead, he plants his fingers just deep enough in Peter to keep massaging his prostate as the other hand gets really into thumbing at the slit of Peter’s cock, spreading the wetness around until his head feels slick and oversensitive.

It could’ve ended there. Peter doesn’t want to come but he could have, and maybe that would’ve been the end of it, but instead Dennis withdraws and says, “Stand up for me, Peter.”

Peter needs a few seconds to make his body listen to him again, and when he tries to move, he’s reminded that, fuck, he _ hurts,  _ but not enough to to make his less obviously hard when he’s standing. His cock stands straight out from his body, flushed red, and Dennis takes another long moment to wrap his ungloved hand back around it and stroke, eyeing it appreciatively as he says, “This seems to be functioning perfectly well, at least.”

Peter’s not so sure he agrees, at this point, but he doesn’t say anything, not to that and not when Dennis turns him around and bends him over the table, promising just one last test.

There’s another crinkle of tearing foil. In a moment without any hands on him, anxiety spikes high in Peter. He could run. He could fight. Worse, though, is the knowledge he won’t, the certainty of getting fucked even before Dennis lines up his cock behind him.

Still, Dennis can’t be rushed. He nudges into Peter’s hole slow, letting him get used to the stretch, getting them both so wet it drips down Peter’s perineum. It’s all Dennis, but he’s still talking to Peter like, “Seem really at ease here,” and “You’re doing so well, Peter.”

Dennis is big, Peter realizes once he’s fully seated in him. He’s never seen it before, but now Dennis is  _ in  _ him and it’s like he can feel it with his entire body. It makes sense how careful he was preparing Peter, because now it’s hardly a fight for him to slide his dick out of Peter, fuck it right back it. 

Peter can’t wrap his head around any of it. It was so much before, and now it feels like the entire world has pinpointed down to getting fucked, not even hard but  _ good, _ expertly. Each thrust forces an uncontrollable noise out of his throat, unhinges his jaw until he has to shove his fist into his mouth and bite down hard on the meat of his thumb to keep the noises in.

But Dennis right there, can hear him, feel him, and the act’s finally dropped long enough for him to grunt out, “Fucking right, Pete, take it, take, tell me you like it, I swear to god, tell me you like it or I’ll—”

“I like it,” Peter interrupts, voice stretched thin.

“Feels good, right? You like this dick? Whoring out for your team?”

“Feels good,” Peter says. It feels wrong coming out, so wrong but not so far from the truth. He hates it but he’s so close to that cliff again, body beyond his control—like his body has truly been his in years, since he got drafted, since he built his entire life up to this moment, since those hours locked out of the house, out on the neighborhood pond for lack of anything better to do.

When Peter finally comes, he’s on his back, Dennis holds his sweatshirt up, jerks him until he’s shooting off against his own shivering stomach.

Dennis wipes him down, then spreads his legs and cleans down there, too, thoroughly, which is when it occurs to Peter that Dennis came in him. He doesn’t have enough of his head put back together to figure out how to feel about that.

Dennis throws all the evidence in his bag, then shoulders it. His voice is back to normal when he says, “Well, I’ll say you’re good for tonight.” And then he leaves.

  
  


Peter puts his clothes back on. Waves at anyone he runs into on the way out. Gets in his car.

God, what the fuck just  _ happened?  _ There had been moments in the past, where he thought maybe Dennis had been looking back, but he never thought—

Sheer, blinding panic chokes him blind. He can’t. There’s nothing to be done. He looks at the clock. His daily routine is off, but not as bad it could have been. No worse than bad traffic. There’s a game tonight. He’s playing. Peter needs to focus on what’s important.


End file.
